


be gone, antigone

by confidantes



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-15 10:19:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4603086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/confidantes/pseuds/confidantes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leave your demons to rest.</p><p>(Short glimpses of Bianchi's life after Gokudera runs away from home, slight Bianchi/Reborn.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	be gone, antigone

After Hayato leaves, the house is quiet.

A maid puts a cup of tea in front of you, in pretense of comfort. You don’t touch it. It grows cold.

You do, after all, have such a stupid little brother.

 

-

 

Father doesn’t bar you from entering the Mafia; in fact, he encourages it. He sets up dinner parties and afternoon cocktails with the local  _capos_ in the area, always a prim smile on his face when he shows you off. “My daughter, Bianchi,” he says, “can cook a mean  _braciole,_ ” and everyone laughs, because they have had the unfortunate experience of sampling your finger sandwiches before. They clink champagne glasses with you, hint at the possibility of  _marriage with their sons_ (which makes you scowl a bit), and at the end of the day, before being escorted to their Rolls Royces parked outside, they bring your father aside with a quiet, “Eh, bring her to me when she’s of age, will you? And then we’ll talk business.”

Your father has never looked prouder. “You’ve done well, Bianchi.”

For your thirteenth birthday, your father gives you a Beretta 96, a clean, smooth pistol that shoots like a dream. It comes in an ornamental box studded with real gems, the kind which, for other girls, might’ve contained necklaces or tiaras or slippers.

But you, you got a gun, and she gleams at you like Aphrodite eternal. “Thank you, Father,” you beam at him, tucking the box neatly under your arm.

Three weeks later, you shoot your first man, a burglar who had tried to break in through the wrong window. The maids spent the next hour cleaning the blood off of your with a warm, damp towel, and for the first time in your life, you wonder if you are a real Mafia princess.

 

-

 

You are fifteen when you first meet him; he must be twenty-five; it’s instant attraction. He admires you with a slow scan of his eyes, a slight quiver of his lips.

“Poisoned dishes. It’s a good idea. Quick. Effective. Little to no clean-up.” He says this as if clinically assessing a patient, but his eyes – his eyes, dark and intense, they never stray from yours.

You laugh, hope your whole femme fatale gig doesn’t belie the anxiety in your heart, and tell him, “Thanks, but I never thought Vongola’s reputed number one hitman would have cowlicks for sideburns.”

He frowns. “They’re not  _cowlicks._ ”

He’s cute. “Whatever you say,  _cowboy,_ ” and you let the sway of your hips when you leave the room speak for itself.

 

-

 

He calls you the next week.

“7pm,  _La Scala_. A car will arrive at your building to pick you up. Don’t be late.”

“And what,” you challenge, “makes you think I’ll go?”

“You will,” he says before hanging up, and you can’t help but sigh happily to yourself, receiver cradled in your arms.

He takes you to the best operas, the best symphonies, the best restaurants in Italy, charms you with the way he can chat up any stranger and yet keeps his words laconic, picks the best wines off the menu with barely a glance, and drives you around in his sleek, black Lamborghini. But at the end of every night, when he sees you to your door, he always declines to come in, and never kisses your mouth.

“Reborn,” you plea with him, “just this once, just kiss me.”

He gives you an aged look that suddenly reminds you just how young you are, and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

“I do like you very much, Bianchi,” he says. “Maybe next time.”

 _Maybe next time._ You should be angry with him, you should beat his chest and tell him that being fifteen years old and a female does not make you any less dangerous than him, but you can’t help but find his odd chivalry attractive.

You do what is ill-advised for any Mafioso in the business: you fall in love.

 

-

 

Three months later, he sends you a letter. It’s postmarked from Naples.

_My dear Bianchi,_

_I’m sorry, but I don’t think we should work this out any longer. Should I cross paths with you again, I hope it is not with animosity._

_\- R._

You don’t think you’ve ever cried harder in your life.

 

-

 

Once, you think you see Hayato in the streets, but the boy disappears too quickly around the corner for you to catch his face.

You’ve heard his new moniker, of course,  _Smokin’ Bomb,_ and on quiet, rainy, nostalgic days, you write him letters that always get returned in three weeks time:

_I see you are doing well, little brother. I’m doing well too. Well – except that I just broke up with Romeo. What a bastard! Sometimes I fall in love too easily, I think. But I can’t deny what the heart wants._

_I miss you, Hayato. Won’t you write back to me soon?_

 

-

 

A few terrible relationships and break-ups later, you decide to get the scorpion inked into your arm.

The artist is the burly, motorcycle gang type, and is surprisingly talkative, so when he revvs the needle up, he asks, “Why is the stinger a heart, lady?”

You smile at him. “Because I’m a romantic, after all,” you tell him. “When I slay, I do it with love.”


End file.
